Plotting to Win

by Tara Chevrestt

  Carmen shrugged. “I figure by the time I resort to emailing e-book publishers, I’ll be just desperate to have my name on a book.” She sneered. “Not my best competition. I’m saving my energy for the elimination challenges.”

  Felicity blinked in surprise. Wow. Way to get on the judges’ bad side. Eager to hear Peters’s response, she waited.

  The guest judge did not rise to the bait. “Sadly, many people have that same thought, I just want my name on a book, but that won’t make you the next bestseller. And if the publisher crashes, your book is no longer published. It’s not like with print books, where it ends up in a used bookstore for twenty other people to discover and read somewhere down the road. It’s gone, no longer available.”

  “Felicity,” Ophelia called.

  “Yes.” This was it. Had she chosen well?

  “You chose one of the most elite romance publishers in the industry. You’re going to have a long wait, but as long you don’t lose patience with their submissions process, you just may be in for a good treat. Six-thousand-dollar advance, promo, and superb editing. What made you think of them?”

  She fought the urge to outright smirk. Tiffani’s glare was burning a hole in her back. She could feel it. “I read their books. They publish books I like. They are a publisher I wouldn’t be ashamed to be associated with.”

  “Good job.” The older author winked at her.

  “Dez,” Ophelia announced.

  “Yep.”

  “You could have done worse, you could have done better. You chose a publisher that does decent editing and art, but like Victor’s choice, they don’t sell. The only reason they’re still in business is they pay their editors based on royalties.” Peters leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That means if your book doesn’t sell, the editors don’t make a dime. They have people working for free. The turnaround is terrible. The problem with many of these publishers, especially this one, is they don’t promote at all. They have an author’s group where they sit around and talk to other authors all day long, but that doesn’t reach readers. Visiting their chat room would have told you a lot.”

  “Damn,” Dez muttered.

  “Another warning sign is they published 200 books in the last year alone. Can you say ‘bit off more than they can chew?’”

  “I see your point.” Dez bobbed his head.

  “They’re also Canadian, and they may be legit, but a word of advice when subbing to a publisher in a different country than you. Ask to see their contract before you agree to anything. If they state that any disputes must be solved in their country’s court, you just may be screwed.” Peters threw his hands up in the air.

  “Thank you, Mr. Peters,” Ophelia inserted herself back into the heart of things. “Now that you have heard your critiques, the judges have decided the winner of this challenge is … Felicity.”

  A hand landed on her shoulder in a congratulatory pat, and Felicity grinned, hardly believing she’d finally won something. Victor smiled at her and touched her elbow, just a light touch, sending tingles up and down her spine, adding to her elation.

  “Felicity, you will have the power to manipulate the next elimination challenge.”

  Yes! There was no question who she was targeting. She clearly had an enemy.

  A few days ago, it would have been Victor, hands down. Now the thought of him leaving caused an ache deep within her … the reason for which she didn’t wish to explore.

  “What are your thoughts so far?”

  “About the show?” Victor asked the camera. When there was no reply, he started talking. “I’m surprised at the challenges. They’re going way beyond the actual writing.”

  “What about the contestants?” asked the voice.

  Victor stared at the camera while he thought about his answer. “I think Tiffani is a little psycho.” He raised his hand, making circles around his ear with his finger. “Carmen has a serious attitude problem. Roy, I think it will take a lot to bring him down. He just may make it to the top. I wish Dez would lay off the sandwiches late at night. Felicity … she’s a force to be reckoned with.” His voice softened. He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and placed his elbows on his knees. “But I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to win. There can be only one of us walking away with the grand prize. And hey,” he visibly perked up, “Anthony Peters, man. I’m glad to have been in the same room with him.”

  “Do you mind if I sit here and write too?”

  Victor looked up from his laptop and nodded, briefly admiring the view. Felicity was wearing tight yoga pants and a sports bra, exposing toned abs and a delectable gold belly ring. “Been working out?” Down, boy.

  She nodded and set her bottle of water and notebook in the empty space adjacent from him. “I’m so glad they put a workout room up here. Not much else we can do while we sit here waiting for the next assignment. One can only do so much writing, you know?” She took a sip from her bottle as soon as she plopped down in the chair. She looked different somehow, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Was that a more determined glint in her eyes?

  “I know.” He fought to get his mind back on his writing and off her chocolate skin — there was lots of it exposed. A droplet of sweat sliding its way down between the concave of her breasts and out of view beneath her top held his attention for one very long moment. He could almost imagine its salty taste on his tongue.

  Note to self: do not forget why you’re here. To win, not make friends. And a woman like that … she believes in, wants, deserves the real thing. Love and a happy ending.

  Not something you can give her, dude.

  He took a deep breath and decided to talk, make a joke — anything to get his mind steered away from the thoughts assailing him. “What happened down there yesterday? I sensed something was up,” he referred to the challenge.

  “Oh, that?” A tight smile formed on her face. “There was a little issue. I reported it, but sadly, there’s nothing they can do. I’m quickly learning that Carmen was right. I can’t be too nice and expect to walk out of here with that money.”

  Interest piqued, he closed his laptop with a click and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What’s up?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Seems someone got into my stuff and stole my story idea. She’s lucky it only scored her a nicer room.”

  Victor groaned and wiped a hand over his face. “Shit. Tiffani?”

  Felicity merely nodded and fiddled with the lid on her water bottle, unscrewing it and screwing it repeatedly.

  “I saw her in your stuff, but she said she was borrowing a book. I didn’t think — I mean, I never — I’m sorry.” He leaned back with a sigh. Way to go, loser. Failing women left and right. It didn’t matter that he was competing against the woman, theft was wrong. He did not condone it.

  “She borrowed a lot more than my book. She stole my story. That entire tale she penned to win the writing challenge against Dez was outlined in my notebook.”

  “Can’t you just show them the notebook?”

  “I did. They said I have to somehow prove I wrote it before she penned the story for the challenge.” Felicity spread her arms wide and made a questioning gesture. “How the hell do I prove that? It’s in a notebook, not a computer. As much as I hate to admit it, I could very well have scribbled that shit down after she won the damned challenge. I didn’t, but you get my drift.” At his nod, she continued, “They also said that technically, every story is stolen, and it’s not plagiarism unless it’s word for word. Not sure I buy that, but …”

  Victor rubbed the stubble on his jaw, thinking. “But didn’t you approach them right after the challenge? You wouldn’t have had time … and story theft is story theft. There must be rules in place or we’d all just rewrite someone else’s work.”

  “Are you kidding? By the time punk girl came back saying they agreed to see me …”

  “Um, yea, I get it.”

  To make sure judges weren’t biased or developing relati
onships with the contestants, one had to go through hoops to consult with them about anything.

  “You aren’t going to tell her any of this, are you?” Felicity looked at him with suspicion marring her pretty face.

  Victor felt a clutch at his heart. She didn’t trust him. But, well, why should she? “No,” he said, and it was the truth. “That’s playing dirty, and I don’t condone that. One should win on their own merits and talent. If she can’t come up with good stories on her own, she doesn’t deserve to win this.”

  “You know.” Felicity leaned over the table, and his gaze shot to her cleavage now on display. She was so intent on what she was saying he doubted she noticed. “I didn’t like you at first, but I like you now, Victor Guzman. You’re good people.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Why not?”

  How to answer that? I’m not capable of love? I don’t know what it is or how to show it? How lame did that sound?

  “Yes, you are.” She stared intently at him, her gaze boring into his, lighting something inside him, setting him aflame. “And you are too,” she added softly.

  “Are too what?” he asked around the lump in his throat.

  “Capable of love. But first, you got to love yourself, and I don’t mean the arrogant I’m god’s-gift-to-women type of love yourself, but the I-am-worthy-of-love type of love yourself.” With one last penetrating glance, she rose from the table and took her notebook with her.

  Victor stared after her, shocked and confused. He’d said that out loud?

  Chapter Eight

  “You are gathered here for your second elimination challenge. The winner of the e-book publisher challenge, Felicity, will be able manipulate this challenge. Whoever loses this challenge will be closing their manuscript and going home. One of you will continue on to become the next bestseller, 100,000 dollars richer, with a Bright House publishing contract in hand.”

  Felicity only partially listened to Ophelia this time. She was more focused on the table in front of them. It had a row of pencils on it. Whatever they were doing, were they writing by hand? That could take a while. She shoved her hands in her jeans’ pockets, not sure what else to do with them as she waited to hear the assignment and figure out how she could manipulate it.

  Ophelia spoke again, standing right in front of Felicity. “We’ve addressed the process of writing a query, choosing a publisher, and today we talk about another major milestone in an author’s life, and a necessary step for being a bestseller. Working with an editor on making your book all it can and should be and then some.”

  “Oooh.”

  “Oh no,” A man groaned. Victor? She fought the urge to glance around. Something told her he would be a know-it-all during the editing process. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “Felicity,” Ophelia beckoned her forward, toward the table, “you have the power to match an editor with an author. Editors, please come out and introduce yourselves.”

  Six people stepped out from behind a screen — three women and three men. They wore a mixture of eclectic attire. Some had chosen a suit and tie combination. One was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Two wore dresses. One was scantily clad. Felicity wrinkled her nose. She’d make sure she wouldn’t assign that one to Victor.

  Why not? It may throw him off his game, her evil gremlin whispered. Because I don’t like the idea of him checking out other women! Felicity shook her head just enough that no one would notice and focused on the editors in front of her.

  “My name is Steve, and I have twenty years editing experience. I work for a major publisher in New York. I don’t argue or waste time. If you want your manuscript to sell, you just listen to me,” a bald man in a suit said, his voice no-nonsense.

  “My name is Lucinda, and I work for an e-book publisher that’s been in the business for five years. My authors do pretty well. I’m familiar with head-hopping, grammar, punctuation, etcetera. I’ll make your book great,” the scantily clad redhead said.

  “I’m James. I work for a solid publishing house in California. I’ve been editing for fifteen years. I especially enjoy military and historical,” another suited man stated.

  I will not give him to Roy then. Felicity’s gaze traveled to the next editor, a very modestly dressed woman.

  “I’m Tabitha. I have seven years with a children’s book publisher.”

  Felicity’s eyes widened. Oh, oh, oh. I know who I’ll give her to.

  “My name is Brent,” an African-American man spoke up. “I am well-known for fact checking. If you don’t have your facts right, I’ll take you down. If you give me inaccuracy, you don’t deserve to be heard … or read. I’m a stickler for facts.” He smiled, a flash of white against dark.

  A woman in a business suit with her hair pulled back into a severe bun, her mouth a firm line on her face, was next. “My name is Ms. Friar. I am the hardest editor you will ever have, that’s if you even make it past acquisitions.” An almost sneer twisted her lips slightly. “I have thirty years of experience. I know what I’m doing. I work for the best house in New York. I won’t waste my time on crap.”

  “Whoa,” someone murmured behind Felicity.

  Whoa is right.

  Ophelia stepped forward, taking the spotlight once again. “Felicity, on the table in front of you are pencils. Each pencil has a contestant’s name on it. Please make a decision and hand the correct pencil to the editor you wish that author to work with for the next four hours.” She focused her gaze on the group in general, her hands on her generous hips, over her baby-blue suit. “Each one of you will consult with the editor on your current manuscript, which we have previously approved. Do not try to show the editor anything but the work in progress we approved.” Ophelia stared hard at Tiffani until the erotic writer squirmed and stared at the floor.

  Felicity thought quickly, bit her lip, and made a decision. Dez and Roy, she didn’t know enough about their writing habits or internal thought processes to do much damage to them, but Victor, Carmen, and Tiffani … as much as it pained her to throw a loop at Victor … well, then again, if he was a good writer, this could work in his favor.

  Shoving guilt and misgivings aside — this was a competition after all — she checked the names on each pencil as she picked it up from the table and double-checked it as she handed it to the chosen editor. Hers was last. She clutched it in her sweaty hand just for a moment longer before handing it over.

  She hoped she was doing the right thing.

  “Editors, please read the name on your pencils aloud,” Ophelia commanded.

  “Roy,” the bald guy read from his pencil.

  “Carmen?” Lucinda tucked her pencil in her cleavage and glanced around.

  “Dez,” James stated.

  “Tiffani.” The children’s books editor actually clapped her hands with her announcement.

  “Victor.” Brent cast an eye at the group, looking grim and ready.

  “Felicity.” The severe Ms. Friar arched a brow and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Felicity heard all kinds of damns, shits, and oh nos behind her as each name was called and was pretty sure someone even muttered a fuck — probably Victor — but Ophelia left them no time to stand around and complain.

  “You will have four hours to work with your assigned editor on your current work in progress. Your editor will report back to us what they think of your work, communication skills, and willingness to revise. Your time starts … now.”

  “You can’t use this paragraph.” Ms. Friar pointed at the screen, glaring over her reading glasses.

  Felicity stiffened in her chair. The show had set up tiny tables and chairs in each writer’s cave to make this situation easier — most likely for the editors, not the competitors. The round tabletop was big enough for a laptop and a notebook and not much else. Ms. Friar’s knees were almost touching her own. Beads of sweat spread across Felicity’s brow and traveled down the concave between her breasts, but the editor appeared cool as a cucumb
er, unfazed by the situation, by the job, or even by the close quarters.

  She looked as though she ate authors for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.

  Swallowing back a sharp retort, Felicity asked, “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Right here you have too many adverbs. That’s a sign of a lazy writer.”

  Felicity felt as though she’d been slapped. Her face heated as if she had.

  The editor ignored whatever facial expressions were playing a war on Felicity’s face and continued, “Why are you using so many LY words to describe instead of taking the time to give us vivid detail? You just throw an LY word in there, telling us he’s doing this slowly, when you could tell us in more words he’s moving his hands across her body as though unwrapping a precious gift, one corner at a time, as though afraid of tearing the paper as he unveils the contents within.”

  Ms. Friar took her glasses off the end of her nose and sniffed as she wiped them on a tiny white square cloth. “Not in those words, but be more creative. I see lots of laziness. Waste of talent.”

  Okay. Okay. Let’s dissect this. She just said you’re talented but lazy, basically, and you do use a lot of LY words.

  “All right. Let me try this.” A deep breath, a little lip biting, and a lot of typing later, Felicity turned the laptop screen back around so it was facing the editor. “Is this what you would like to see more of?” She waited with baited breath. Beneath the table, her legs were quivering.

  Ms. Friar put her glasses back on her nose and stared long and hard for what seemed like hours, but really, only had to be minutes. Her expression didn’t change. It remained as hard and neutral as it had been when calling her lazy, but the next words out of her mouth lifted Felicity’s spirits considerably.